Three's a charm
by NatalieakaGothVamp
Summary: Incidents linked by the number 3 showing John's life post Reichenbach. John is devastated and unable to move on after Sherlock's death. Mycroft, guilt ridden over his own role in what happened, takes it upon himself to look after John. Unintentionally, over time their lives become interwoven. But then Sherlock comes back and plunges everything into chaos. JohnCroft and JohnLock.
1. Chapter 1

Three days after Sherlock was pronounced dead, the funeral was held. It was incidentally also when it finally dawned on doctor John Watson that he had been in love with his best friend the whole time, without allowing himself to admit it. It seemed a silly and slightly useless thing to realize, now that it no longer mattered. On the other hand, it felt more appropriate for a grieving lover that for an army doctor whose flatmate had committed suicide to be begging a gravestone for one more miracle.

The service was quiet, with only a handful of people having turned up. John was not surprised, considering the circumstances of Sherlock´s death and the headlines still calling him a criminal mastermind. He was not upset by the low turn-up. This was how Sherlock would have liked it, he reckoned.

With Mrs. Hudson crying on his shoulder and the pastor's quiet words droning on in the background, his own emotions strangely dimmed, like the deafness one experiences after a grenade has gone off too close, he felt detached from his environment. His eyes started wandering over the small group gathered and came to rest on Mycroft at the back.

Sherlock's brother was as usual impeccably dressed, a pleasantly neutral look on his face and an impenetrable air around him. He found himself curious as to what lay behind that carefully cultivated mask. Did he feel guilt? Sadness? Did he miss Sherlock as much as John did? Or was he glad to be rid of his troublesome brother. For some reason John had to know.

After the service, Mycroft made an attempt to disappear into the shadows, Anthea and his trusted black Audi already waiting, but John intercepted him. He needed to know.

"You don't believe them, do you? That he was a criminal. Because, I know how this looks and what everyone seems to be whispering and…"

"No," came the soft reply. Just a negative, his words not betraying any feeling behind it, the word only intended to soothe John, not soothing in itself. John wondered, not for the first time, if the eldest Holmes was even capable of human emotion, was he even affected by his brother's death or was he glad for not having to clean up his messes anymore? He caught himself before he could lash out. He did not want to fight with Mycroft, definitely not at a funeral, and now that he had his answer, there was no point to continue this conversation. He mumbled his condolences and made his way back to Mrs. Hudson.


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks after Sherlock was pronounced dead, and just at the point when John thought he would start climbing the walls, the doorbell of 221B rang. It was Mycroft. John had not seen him since the funeral, and his sudden, unannounced visit was more of a surprise than the impromptu kidnappings he used to stage when Sherlock was still around, but frankly, he was happy to have a distraction from his thoughts, even a distraction in the dubious form of Sherlock Holmes' older brother.

John invited him in and offered to make them tea, because he could still faintly remember that was what civilised people did. People who did not forgo food for days or shoot at the wall when they were bored. Mycroft declined, saying he still had a crisis in the Middle East to attend to shortly. John had no idea if that was an attempt at a joke.

Mycroft handed him a stack of papers and John was momentarily reminded of the business with Irene Adler. Was Mycroft there to explain how sure he was Sherlock was dead and to show him evidence? Because that would just be cruel.

Instead Mycroft explained that the papers were for the flat. He had paid Sherlock's share of the rent for the next five years and that John was welcome to stay living there, should he want to, as long as he would not toss out Sherlock´s things, but relocate them to his old room.

John was surprised and touched by this gesture, even though he was not sure what had prompted it. Was he looking after John, because he though Sherlock would have wanted that? Was Mycroft as unable to let go of Sherlock as he was? Keeping this apartment as some sort of shrine for his deceased brother?

Suddenly John could see himself living there, month after month, year after year, seeing Sherlock everywhere, hearing his voice in the creaking of old furniture, watching Mrs. Hudson look at him with pity. A lost case, withering away in an apartment, old and alone. That thought was too much, he felt himself suffocating.

"As kind and generous your offer is, Mycroft, I think I would rather look for something else."

Mycroft, unperturbed, produced an envelope from his briefcase. "I expected you would. So I took the liberty to look at some government-owned properties for you. I think this, albeit no Baker Street, would fall within your budget and your wishes."

John read through the papers, his eyebrows rising at the location and price. "This…this is great! How did you find something so cheap in London?"

Mycroft allowed himself a small, secretive smile. "I have my resources."

John frowned. A Holmes doing something charitable? "What's the catch?"

The smile grew into a full-on laugh. "No catch. You have my word. You fascinate me doctor. You're a dying breed: a good man. Besides, when we first met, I asked you to look after my brother…"

John let out a mirthless laugh, "and look what a good job I did!"

"Oh but you _have_ done a good job. A better job than I could have done, that's for sure. I've never seen my brother happier than during the time he has spent with you."

John was still unconvinced and remained morose. Mycroft turned to leave, then halted, his neutrally pleasant expression cracking for a moment to show real emotion and placed his hand fleetingly on John's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, John. You need to get on with your life."

Then he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Three months after Sherlock was pronounced dead, John had settled down in his new flat in Notting Hill and his new part-time job as an emergency room attendant. He was overqualified, but it paid the bills. He got up in the morning, made breakfast, went to work, came back, ate dinner, stared at the television and went to bed. Occasionally Greg would ask John to join him at the pub, to what he sporadically agreed.

Nothing had changed. ´Get on with your life´, Mycroft had said, but it was as if John had forgotten how to do that. Everything seemed dull, dimmed and devoid of all colour. In the army, he had known how to deal with death, but here, in the real world, he just could not get the hang of it. That was when Mycroft visited again. Unannounced and seemingly unprompted he appeared on John's doorstep. John made them tea and asked how work was.

Mycroft ignored his enquiries and instead stated: "This is not healthy, John. You are not well, not even on the way to recovery. This is not what Sherlock would have wanted."

For some reason his presence and words penetrated the haze that had permeated John´s life since the funeral. He suddenly felt the pain that came with missing Sherlock, but there was a distracting agitation and a growing anger at Mycroft as well. What did he know about what Sherlock would have wanted? He had never truly understood his brother. Probably never even tried. Who was he to tell John how to grieve? Should he not be at home wrecked with guilt about the role he had played in Sherlock's death? John was. He felt so guilty for leaving Sherlock alone, for trusting that clearly fake phone call, for saying those horrible things to Sherlock, for not being able to protect him, not being able to save him. Not Mycroft, there he was, calmly sipping his tea and telling John once again to move on with his life.

John was suddenly so blinded by anger, that he did not realize he had leaped to his feet and balled his hands into fists. Mycroft got up as well, towering over John. Not wanting to appear menacing, he took a step back towards the door, which just prompted John to step forward.

"Not healthy? At least I'm showing genuine human emotion. Have you even grieved for Sherlock or are you truly that indifferent? Is it just as well that your annoying little brother isn't there anymore to make your life harder? Is that why you didn't hesitate to give Moriarty everything he wanted? Don't you feel the least bit guilty?" John had been yelling so hard, he ran out of breath. In the moment he needed to gulp in a breath, he noticed that Mycroft probably did feel guilty, judging by the stricken look on his face. But he was still calm and composed otherwise.

To John, who was completely overwhelmed by his feelings, Mycroft's calm was infuriating, he stumbled forward and took a swing at the taller man. Mycroft reacted lightning-fast, more reflex than intent. Moving one foot back and leaning his body backwards, he successfully avoided contact while simultaneously with one hand extending his umbrella to trip John and with the other grabbing John's fist and twisting his arm behind his back. This resulted in John crashing full-body into the door.

Just as quickly as the anger had risen, it had disappeared, like a deflating balloon, leaving John slumped against the door, shivering lightly. He felt moisture on his face and thought that he had hit his head harder than he had expected and was bleeding. It took him a moment to realize that he was crying.

John had not been able to cry outside St. Bart´s, nor at the funeral. In fact, this was the first time the dull, overwhelming ache in his chest had turned into tears. With the realization came ugly, wrecking sobs and full-body shudders. John cried like a child, finally able to have an outlet for the emotions that had been bottled-up inside him for months. The feeling was liberating, but also coupled with shame. Of all opportunities he had had to break down, why did his body choose to let it all go in front of Mycroft?

John tried to stop crying, but found he could not. The harder he tried, the closer he was getting to hysterics.

Suddenly there were hands carefully turning and propping him up against the door, stroking his arms, shoulders, hair. The ministrations were soothing, but he still could not stop the sobs that wrecked through his body and he closed his eyes in embarrassment. Then there were soft hands on his face, wiping his tears away and tilting his head with surprising gentleness.

John's world came to a screeching halt when he felt warm lips connect with his own.

Some months later, after he had gotten to know Mycroft better, John realized that while Mycroft was significantly better than his brother in recognizing and applying socially acceptable and expected behaviour, he was, just like his brother, lost when it came to showing emotion or compassion, preferring to delegate such things as, for example, consoling a crying doctor. Confronted with a situation where he was stuck with arms full of said doctor, he did the next best thing: he provided a distraction.

And what a distraction it was! John's mind had been wiped completely clean of any remaining thought. The kiss, barely more than a touch of lips, so unexpected and shocking that John forgot how to breathe.

John´s body recovered before his brain did and started to kiss back. And by the time his brain caught up, he was enjoying himself too much to stop what was happening. Mycroft proved to be a particularly skilled kisser and considering John had already come to terms that he was not as heterosexual as he had thought and was able to be in love with another man, a bit of heavy petting was not really that earth shattering on the greater scale of things. Besides, his whole being was screaming out for pleasure, for finally a different emotion than despair.

His face was still wet with tears and his hands grasped frantically at Mycroft's arms. The kiss turned sloppy, noses bumping, teeth clashing, saliva mixing with tears. John was trying to get Mycroft closer still, pulling at his shoulders, jacket, hair, attempting to climb the taller man. Mycroft bowed down to accommodate the height difference and insinuated his knee between John´s legs, pressing up and rubbing against his denim covered crotch. John let out a guttural groan, finally breaking the kiss, and gasped in lungfuls of air, just to resume kissing with even more fervour. John´s hands took hold of Mycroft´s arse and pulled him impossibly close in a mindless rut. It was Mycroft´s turn to gasp. The ever so calm and collected Mycroft was flushed deep red, hair tousled, clothes dishevelled, mouth bruised and looking slightly dazed. John felt immensely proud of this achievement. But then as Mycroft´s hands made short work of his flies and slender fingers took a firm hold of his cock, he lost the ability to feel any emotion apart from lust.

His body starved for stimulation, and Mycroft´s hands proving very talented, John did not last very long. He came with a drawn-out groan and hazily, still half in the throes of climax, noticed Mycroft opening his own trousers and finishing himself with a couple of quick strokes.

For a moment they both panted against each other, coming down from their orgasms. Then Mycroft took out a handkerchief and cleaned them up as much as possible, arranging their clothes into some semblance of decency. His face was still flushed and he seemed unsure where to look.

"I, um, I apologize. I'm not usually that…forceful."

John, still blissed out from their activities and even less sure of how to react than Mycroft, shrugged, "It's, alright, good, actually, that was, good, I mean. Nice. I enjoyed it. Uh…"

"Right, good, I…I probably should be going…" Mycroft looked around as John moved away from the door to grant him access. He was nearly down the stairs, then almost as an afterthought, turned around and looked John in the eye. "I do, you know. Feel guilty that is, for what happened. All the time." Before John´s still somewhat scrambled brain could make sense of that statement, Mycroft was gone.

Suddenly John felt really sorry for his outburst and for letting his anger take over and taking it out on Mycroft, who had only tried to help. He was, however, not sorry for where it had led them.

Looking around, John noticed that Mycroft had forgotten his umbrella in the hall. He was about to grab it and run after him, to catch up with him before he drove off, but then he realized that Mycroft would never forget something as essentially part of him as his umbrella and smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

Thirty three months after Sherlock was pronounced dead, Mycroft's phone went off in the middle of the night. John blearily opened one eye and groggily inquired: "What time is it?"

Mycroft, already up and about to start brushing his teeth, glanced at his watch and replied: "It's 4.23."

"Isn't it a bit rude to call someone at four thirty in the morning?"

"Yes, yes it is," Mycroft agreed. "However, it's not four thirty in Abu Dhabi."

"Naturally," said John, rolling his eyes, a gesture Mycroft missed, as he was busy putting his clothes on with inhuman speed.

John had a theory that Mycroft only had two settings: fast asleep and wide awake. Where John was stumbling about like a blind hedgehog in the morning before he had had his shower, tea and toast, Mycroft could get ready to deal with any matter of national security in a few minutes, no matter at what ungodly hour he was roused. John once told him: 'You don't sleep, you wait' and when Mycroft failed to understand the reference, started to laugh much louder than was appropriate. Mycroft had sulked for the next two weeks and refused to contact him. When confronted, he pretended he had been busy preventing a war.

John felt soft lips brush over his and saw Mycroft grabbing his umbrella from near the door with one hand and high-speed texting someone with the other.

"Go back to sleep, John." Then the bedroom door shut with a soft click.

Getting back to sleep proved harder than expected. John´s thoughts started wandering to when he first moved into his flat, how different things had been back then. He had changed jobs more often than he cared to remembered since then, changed girlfriends too, changed furniture, changed clothes, even friends. Surprisingly, Mycroft of all people, had been the only constant in his life.

A few days after their first frantic fumble against the door, Mycroft had come back under the pretence of retrieving his umbrella, both of them knowing he could have sent Anthea or anyone else to do that and that he had not actually forgotten it in the first place, but pretending otherwise. John had offered tea again.

They had actually managed to reach the bedroom, at some point at least.

Over time, Mycroft´s visits turned from sporadic to regular and John was surprised how much he looked forward to seeing him and how much he enjoyed unravelling Mycroft´s character traits bit by bit.

Mycroft was a man of mystery, his secrets both his strength and his weakness.

Sherlock had conceded that Mycroft was clever, very clever. A proper genius, like him. But he thought he lacked ambition and was lazy. John found that was not really the case. Where Sherlock needed an audience, needed to prove to the world at large how good he was, Mycroft was much more interested in making himself both indispensable and invisible. Yes, he did like the power he possessed, but he did not feel the need to flaunt it.

Mycroft did not want to be at the mercy of others. If difficult choices had to be made, he preferred to make them himself. This of course put the weight of the world on his shoulders, or at the very least England and Wales. It made romantic entanglements difficult, near impossible. Mycroft could not talk about his work, worked long hours, had to be out of the country for long periods of time at least once a month and could be called away on an emergency at any given time. Not to forget, the risk associated with his position. While he was not a famous public figure, people who mattered were well aware of who he was and his influence, especially when this influence had been detrimental for their position. Of course, being with Mycroft was not nearly as dangerous as being with Sherlock-reckless-target-practice-Holmes.

However, while a very responsible person, Mycroft was not a self-sacrificing man. He liked his job and fully enjoyed it's perks. He liked luxury, fine dining and expensive clothes. He also loved the Queen and Country, something John, as a soldier, could really relate to, even though he suspected that his England was different from Mycroft's England. Where John's life had football, pints in the pub with friends, crap telly, that he secretly enjoyed, and fry-ups on Sundays. Mycroft belonged to the elusive and almost extinct class of true English gentlemen. He loved his country, the traditions, conservatism, composure and politeness. He felt fiercely protective of it and its values. John suspected Mycroft secretly liked James Bond films, though so far, he had not been able to find any evidence for that. He had, however, discovered that in addition to his love for classical music, Mycroft secretly enjoyed show tunes. With enough cajoling and good whiskey he could even be persuaded to play some for John on his piano.

Mycroft was also a surprisingly attentive lover, be it in or outside the bedroom. He never pushed, never coerced and had the patience of a saint, actually enjoying taking things slow, savouring the act. He knew when John's or his close relatives' birthday was or when something happened to distress John. Every time John would lose his job or girlfriend, either voluntarily or not, Mycroft was there to surprise him with dinner at a place that charged half his monthly salary or a weekend getaway to a ridiculously posh hotel. When asked, Mycroft pretended he had no idea anything had happened and that he had simply wanted to see John. John did not pursue the argument further and was secretly touched.

John, himself was used to be accommodating. After Sherlock, Mycroft could hardly be considered demanding. John made sure he did not ask questions about work, knowing that Mycroft would share tidbits of information if he was able, but outright questions would be met with suspicion and irritation. John was also not a needy, nor an overly affectionate person. Whenever his girlfriends wanted to cuddle on the couch, he would indulge them, even enjoyed it himself, but he did not instigate such behaviour himself. He was perfectly content in keeping physical affection restricted to the bedroom and so was Mycroft. Their domestic moments, if one could call them that, took place on mornings after John had stayed the night at Mycroft's flat. Mycroft would usually be up before him, already dressed and working in his study. John would get up, take a shower, and make them both breakfast. Mycroft had a housekeeper of course, whom he would send away on days John stayed over. John was aware of this, but he enjoyed taking care of people and Mycroft would always let him. The rest of the morning would be spent in relative silence, John reading the paper, occasionally making a remark on something he had read, and Mycroft typing away at his computer or signing papers.

Even though there were days when John missed the danger, the thrill of a chase and his completely mad best friend, but those days were getting less frequent. So were the girlfriends. Overall he was content.


	5. Chapter 5

Three years after Sherlock was pronounced dead, he came back into John's life. It probably should have been during some life-or-death situation with explosions all around them and Sherlock swooping in to save the day. Instead, John literally bumped into him stepping out of a cab when he was on his way back home to meet Mycroft. For a moment John thought he was hallucinating, that Sherlock had a twin brother or that he had seen a ghost, but when he saw the look of horrified surprise on Sherlock's face he knew the explanation was much more logical: Sherlock Holmes was alive and had faked his own death. His hair was shorter, clothes different, but it was unmistakably Sherlock.

John felt different feelings wash over him like waves: surprise, confusion, hope, then all-consuming, incredible relief and joy, as if he finally was able to release a breath he did not know he had been holding for three years. Sherlock was alive, alive and well and standing in front of him.

Sherlock, having recovered from the shock of the encounter, started to edge away, looking around for an escape route. John grabbed his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sherlock, turning pale, looked around again. "We mustn't be seen together, definitely not here."

"Then come with me to my flat. You're not getting away that easy, not without an explanation."

Sherlock twitched and surveyed the surroundings again. Then, having made up his mind, hailed a taxi and bundled them both in. John only let go of Sherlock´s arm once the doors were secured.

In the silence of the cab, John´s initial joy was rapidly turning into anger. How could Sherlock have done this to him? All the pain he had gone through, the missing, the loneliness. And here he was, safe and sound, as if nothing had happened. And what about his brother? How could he have left Mycroft with all that guilt?

By the time they arrived at John's flat, he was positively seething with rage.

"Explanation. Now. The short version," he gritted out through his teeth.

"Moriarty. I knew he was going to try to make me kill myself so I arranged everything to make it seem that way. Just in case. He had instructed his criminal network to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade should I not die. He was of course the key to everything and I had been convinced I would be able to use him to call off the assassins. Had a whole plan thought out and everything. Didn´t expect him to see through that and top himself. That was…a setback."

"You could have told me."

"No, I couldn't risk Moriarty finding out."

"What about afterwards? After he shot himself. I don't know, a text, Irene Adler style: 'I'm not dead, let's have dinner'."

Sherlock fidgeted a little. "I couldn't risk it. If those assassins would get the tiniest suspicion I wasn't dead, they would execute their orders. Moriarty made sure of it. Besides, you already thought I was dead, had gone through watching me die. It didn't matter anymore."

"Didn't ma…Jesus, Sherlock! Of course it mattered! Every minute that I thought you were dead, was a minute of more pain, of more guilt, more regret. To think that you would let me suffer, let all of us suffer, while you were out there…"

"While I was taking down Moriarty's network, to protect all of you!"

They were both yelling now. Standing opposite each other in the middle of the room.

"I, I stood over your dead body. I took your _pulse_. Do you…"

"Now you see, there is this trick one can do with a rubber ball…"

"NO! I don't want to hear your explanation of _how_ you did it. I'm sure it's clever and amazing and brilliant, but I don't care! I arranged your funeral. I stood over your grave. I mourned you, Sherlock. I grieved. Do you have any idea what your death put me through, you selfish cunt?"

"Selfish? Everything I've done was to protect you! To save your life!"

"It's my life, don't I get a say in that?"

"It wasn't just your life. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, should I have endangered them too to give you a choice to die and expose myself to a crime syndicate after my head?"

"And what about your brother? Do you have any idea how guilty he felt? Was it so difficult for you to get in touch with him? You know he would've kept your secret."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to interject something, then refrained. But the momentary confusion on his face said all John needed to know and the horrifying realization slowly dawned.

"Ah, but he did. He has kept your secret, hasn't he? He has known the entire time." John let out a mirthless laugh. "I'm such an idiot. Of course he knew." Multiple emotions were battling inside him; betrayal, pain, anger, self-loathing. He had no idea which would win and whether he would burst out in tears or maniacal laughter. For a moment they were both silent, Sherlock trying to come up with the right thing to say and John trying to get his emotions in check.

Mycroft, in a bout of particularly bad timing, chose that precise moment to bound up the stairs with a bounce in his step that usually signified him being in an especially cheerful mood. As he opened the door and took in the faces of the room's occupants his good mood immediately dissipated and he instinctively took a step backwards.

John swirled on the spot and fixed his emotions, which had rapidly shifted back to anger, on Mycroft.

"How could you?! You lied and pretended you were mourning, you pretended you understood how I felt. But I suppose I'm just a Holmes' plaything after all. What am I to you two? Some kind of pet? Amusing to keep around, but not smart or important enough to involve in your decisions."

"J…John…" Mycroft stammered.

Surprising everyone, in a moment of helpless frustration, John swung his fist and punched Mycroft square in the face, rather hard. The surprising part was not necessarily the punch itself, it was Mycroft not dodging the punch, even though John knew he could have. To his credit, he did not go down, but swayed on his feet a little and held out his arms for balance. The resulting silence was deafening, with Sherlock staring at John as if he had suddenly grown a second head.

"You punched Mycroft in the face," a statement made with more glee than Sherlock should display in this particular situation, where John was concerned. "I've never punched Mycroft, actually I'm pretty sure no one has ever punched Mycroft and lived to tell." Sherlock sounded on the verge of erupting into a fit of giggles. Mycroft had stopped swaying, but still looked a bit bleary-eyed.

John had enough, the army doctor in him taking over the situation. "You," he physically pointed at Sherlock, as if the anger in his words was not enough to convey the message, "shut up and sit down, before I punch _you_ in the face." To their both surprise, Sherlock complied immediately. "And you," he added, addressing Mycroft this time, his voice less loud, but still firm, "come here, let me check your face."

Even though he knew Mycroft was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, his doctor's instincts warned him against a possible concussion or broken nose and his sensibilities bristled at having physically attacked someone he was intimately involved with.

He sat Mycroft down in a chair opposite Sherlock and, crouching in front of him, shone a light into his eyes. Then he carefully, but methodically touched Mycroft's jaw. Satisfied that apart from a significant bruise and possibly a black eye, there was no further damage, John righted himself and crossed his arms.

In the ensuing silence Mycroft's phone went off, but he turned it off and pocketed it without even looking at the screen. In all the years John had known him, he had never seen Mycroft do that. The peculiarity did not escape Sherlock's attention either.

"Don't tell me the Ice man has developed feelings," Sherlock sneered, "how surprising."

Mycroft did not miss a beat. "And the Virgin is still running away from his. How predictable."

Sherlock's spine straightened and his face turned red. He looked as if he was ready to attack. "I tried to protect him and I asked you to watch over him, not shag him! Your entanglements are not without risk to him. But I should have known. My brother ever doing something without personal gain? Did you consider him in debt to you for your protection? Some sort of compensation in natura?"

"How dare you?!" And that was another new experience: seeing Mycroft lose his composure, lose it completely. He was on his feet and about to take a swing at his brother.

"ENOUGH!" John bellowed jumping in-between the warring siblings. "I won't stand for you two fighting over me like…, like I'm some toy."

He turned towards Sherlock and pinned him down with a stare. "Stay put, I have to have a word with your brother, in private." Sherlock looked taken aback that he was being excluded. John knew he was moments from a proper sulk and did not want to witness that. He led Mycroft into his bedroom and closing the door behind them, sat on the bed.

"He was wrong about me wanting… I didn't plan…," Mycroft started, uncomfortable and unsure of his place.

"I know."

They were silent for a moment, John sitting down with his face in his hands, Mycroft pacing about the small bedroom.

"Why didn't you tell me? You knew how much his death had hurt me, how much it was hurting me. How could you look at me and not say a thing?" John's anger had been replaced by sadness and he looked tired and weary.

Mycroft reached out to touch John's face, then reconsidered and let his hand fall along his body.

"I'm good at keeping secrets. That is what I do. I never wanted, nor asked anything of you. I didn't make any promises either." For a moment it seemed that Mycroft would leave it at that, but then he sighed and added: "At first I thought Sherlock was right. You were safer not knowing. You were the prime target, if they would find out even our combined resources would not keep you out of harm's way. We did not know who they were or how far Moriarty's web reached. But as time went by…I got…selfish, I suppose," John's head shot up at that admission. "I knew if I would tell you, you would never forgive me. I liked being a part of your life. I knew there would come a day when I would have to step aside and let my brother take his rightful place by your side, but I had no intention of bringing this about myself."

John shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe Sherlock basically called me a…"

"He hasn't," Mycroft interjected. "He was trying to get a rise out of me, not thinking about other emotional consequences his words could have. He does that.

John, I realise you are upset and angry at both of us, as you have every right to be, but I'm hoping you can find it in your heart to forgive my brother. For all his crassness and insensitivity, he really cares for you. His main concern in this has always been your safety. You should have seen him the past three years. He missed you, he was hurting. He needs you. I understand if you can't trust me, or if you don't want to see me anymore, but don't turn him away, he will be devastated."

Mycroft turned to leave until his cuff was caught by John. "Where do you think you're going? You don't get to leave here until I have had the opportunity to yell at you, throw a hissy-fit and have you two grovelling for my forgiveness." While his tone was firm, the twinkling in his eye betrayed that the forgiveness would be granted in the end.

To the untrained eye Mycroft did not visibly react, but to someone like John, who had had years to learn and catalogue Mycroft's little quirks and peculiarities it was crystal clear his statement was met with extreme relief. It showed in how Mycroft's eyes opened a little wider, how the corners of his mouth quirked up a tiny bit and how his form lost some of its rigidness.

"John…" His hand reached out again, with an ever so slight tremor, this time reaching its destination and stroking John's cheek with almost unbearable tenderness.

"I'm not letting you off easily, mind. Neither of you. You'll going to have to work for my forgiveness."

John smiled, then jumped to his feet. "Come on, let's talk to the overgrown kid, before he destroys my living room out of boredom or spite".


End file.
